My (personal) rules:
No planning. No thinking. No backtracking. Just write. 500 words everyday.
24 Dec 2015
Day 1: Select a book at random in the room. Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story. (I do. - The Fault In Our Stars)
I do.
I hear the trembling words. I can see nothing but blackness, feel nothing but blackness, hear nothing. Like I’m in an endless void. Trapped. Alone.
“I-I…” I stammer, unwilling to sign away my soul. It senses my hesitation. It is unpleased. I can feel its breath on my neck. The light flicks of its tongue caressing my jugular as it hisses threateningly.
Say it.
“I-I-I d-do-o” I force out. Had my senses not been void, I would feel my tears. I can sense its joy at my surrender. I feel myself being lifted up, into uneven arms, as we descend down, down, down. I would be alarmed, but I had long ago lost my bearings of up or down, left or right, of above ground or otherwise.
What I can sense though, is the smell. The stench. Its stench. The smell of a hundred rotting corpses. The smell that now envelops me, surrounds me, traps me. I would feel nauseous, except my body isn’t quite what it was. I doubt I have the ability to feel nauseous.
My perfect bride.
It is said with so much conviction, it is almost violent. My trembling increases.
Come now. Soon you will be reborn and lose the silly emotion of fear.
I try to scream, but I can feel the absence of my mouth, or vocal chords. Instead, a warm feeling replaces the absent vibrations of sound in my windpipe. I try to scream, again and again, but the warmth increases the harder I try. It is painful. Like a raging fire that is spreading across my body.
Shh, shh. Calm down. You are hurting yourself. My bride has to be perfect.
I try to calm down but I can’t. I’m terrified. I’m losing feeling in my senses. The fire burns away my teeth, my lips, my nose, my eyes. Leaving nothing but an absence behind. My heart beats impossibly faster.
STOP IT. YOU ARE RUINING MY BRIDE.
I can’t I can’t, I metaphorically sob. I can feel my soul crying as the fire burns away my collarbone, my ribs, my breasts, my arms, my fingers. As the fire washes over them, they stiffen and harden and cease to exist to me. The harder my soul cries, the more unruly the fire, the more uneven I feel myself hardening. It is more painful than I’ve ever felt. I want to die, but I am already dead.
Your outer covering is uneven. Flawed.
The fire spreads even more. I lose my torso, my hips, my thighs, my calves, my feet, my toes. All that’s left is a faint weight of a useless heart, and the crackling of cranial fluid as it solidifies around my brain.
Look what you’ve done. Another piece of trash. And you had so much potential to be my perfect bride.
I can sense it throwing my unjointed hard body into other hard bodies. We are all trapped in our own nothingness.
Now you’re just a mannequin.
Afterthoughts: It started out as some lizard-demon-bride ritual thing but ended up becoming a mannequin horror. 503 words. Story is inconsistent, especially the parts about the absence of senses. Oh, well. No horror tomorrow though. LET’S WRITE FLUFF.
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